


Early Mornings

by LuciustheDragon



Category: Uta no Prince-sama
Genre: A bit of poetry, Alternate Universe, Camus is a pâtissier, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masato is a poetry professor at a university, Morning Sex, PWP, a bit of nipple play, aaaaaaaaa, and by that i mean one cheesy as fuck haiku, dom masato, some reeeeally vague minor d/s undertones but soft, sub camus, there's a little bit to show context for how they met but other than that...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 09:21:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19720795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciustheDragon/pseuds/LuciustheDragon
Summary: Despite needing to wake up early, Camus is far from a morning person. Masato is. Whether it be as a customer or as a lover, he makes Camus look forward to those early mornings a bit more.





	Early Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for @Virgin_Chan_ on Twitter!! I hope you enjoy. I know I certainly enjoyed writing heheheheHE

It took a monumental effort on Camus’s part to form the habit of waking up early for the pâtisserie. Even the incentive of creating his beloved confections barely detered him from smashing his alarm clock each morning. However, the same clearly could not be said for his first customer of each day. He was effortlessly composed from the neat straight-cut hair down to his polished leather loafers. Perhaps effortless isn’t right; this customer was always hard at work, so he must have put a substantial effort into maintaining appearances. Camus could respect that.

The customer arrived every morning with his laptop and a multitude of books in tow. He followed the same routine each day: order a matcha tea and melon pan, read as he sips on his tea, then pull out his laptop soon after Camus came over to refill his cup. Normally, Camus did not take too much interest in his customers, but this one had always intrigued him.

“Poetry…” Camus murmured under his breath as he refilled the tea. Of the many times Camus had served this customer over the past several months, he said nothing but what was necessary. He never even felt the need to ask for his name. That utterance was a blunder which he hoped the other man did not hear. Camus did not want to give him the impression that he was snooping. This concern occupied him enough that he did not think about how strange it was that he cared about the impression he was making.

“Yes, poetry. I love it. I’m guessing you know quite a bit about it if you recognized this anthology.” The way the customer lit up turned Camus’s vague agitation to something thrilling and warm that spread in his chest and perhaps his cheeks. 

“Just a little.” 

“Enough to appreciate a haiku, perhaps?”

Camus raised a brow. “Certainly.”

Masato appraised Camus, but not in an uncomfortable way. He really smiled at Camus for the first time. Camus had seen him smile before, but not directed at him. The warmth Camus was feeling before came back full force. He was certain that it manifested in his expression, somehow. 

“Good. Then tell me what you think.” He rummaged through his briefcase until he found a neatly folded piece of paper, which he then handed over to Camus. His fingertips grazed Camus’s.

“Right now?”

The customer’s demeanor stiffened just slightly, and Camus wondered if he said something out of line. 

“Ah, I apologise for being presumptuous. If you need to go back to work, or if you just don’t want to, then…”   
  


“No. I’d be happy to.” He carefully unfolded the paper to read.

_ Snow’s kiss on your cheeks _

_ Melts, blooms into rosy warmth _

_ Like the budding spring. _

He noticed the footnote: a name. Hijirikawa Masato. 

“Hijirikawa…” Even with Camus having felt as if his heart stopped, the name flowed easily. Holy river indeed. “It’s romantic.” 

The customer—Hijirikawa huffed out a laugh. “I would hope so, Camus-san. It was meant to be.”

“Oh. Then, if you’re giving this to me…”

“Yes. It’s for you. This, and my feelings, if you choose to accept them.” Camus had rejected his fair share of confessions, so when they came, it was not terribly surprising up to this point. Coming from Hijirikawa, however, it was a surprise. A pleasant one, Camus could admit. In the years he had spent as a pâtissier, nobody ever caught his interest quite like Hijirikawa. His demeanor and how he carried himself had captivated Camus from the very beginning. Even in the midst of this confession, Hijirikawa remained steadfast with his gaze and dignified in posture. 

“If that’s the case, then I accept your feelings, and I can honestly say that I return them.” Those words hung in the air as Hijirikawa looked up at him. His grin emerged like the sun just beginning to rise from the horizon. Ah, now Camus was waxing poetic.

“It makes me very happy to hear that, Camus-san. Well then…” He pulled out his chair and stood in front of Camus before bowing. “Well then, I’ll be in your care, Camus-san.”

The formality was familiar and charming. Camus bowed to Hijirikawa in turn. “And I in yours, Hijirikawa.”

*^*^*^*^*

Some things have changed since those early days, but much has stayed the same as well. Camus has as much trouble waking up as ever, but he has forgone the alarm clock.

“Camus.” He entertains the idea of ignoring Masato, but that plan is thwarted when he feels an open-mouthed kiss against his neck. Camus lets out a guttural groan. He  _ really _ doesn’t want to wake up yet, but the desire for Masato’s touch outweighs the desire to sleep. With Masato’s help, he turns over to face Masato and settles an arm loosely around his waist. Camus relishes in Masato’s quiet squeak when he presses his nose to the crook of Masato’s neck. As smooth as Masato is when initiating, he never knows what to do with himself when Camus is the one taking action.

“Good morning, Masato.” Camus is awake enough that his voice, though gravelly, is intelligible despite being muffled.

“Good morning, dear. Are you awake, now?”

“Hm… I’m getting there. Maybe I will be if you help me.” Masato has realised that Camus is rather cheeky, and he is less inclined to hide that fact when he is not fully awake. He clicks his tongue before coaxing Camus’s head off of him. He whines through his nose, but any complaints fade from his addled mind when Masato kisses him and lowers both hands to caress Camus’s sides. It’s hot, and it’s languid, and Masato’s tongue is curling against Camus’s in the way that always chases the cold away from his fingers and toes. Masato brings his hands below the waistband of Camus’s silk pajama pants to grip Camus’s ass just hard enough that his nails will end up leaving faint crescents against his skin. Uninhibited, Camus presses his hips forward, and Masato’s thigh is close enough that he can begin to grind against it. Masato breaks away from Camus’s lips so that he can press more kisses to his neck. A nip to a particularly sensitive spot makes Camus’s hips stutter while he whines out something barely resembling Masato’s name. It’s thrilling to Masato that he knows exactly how to make Camus think of nothing but his touch, and that Camus trusts him to do that for him. So without remorse (or at least with very little of it), Masato pulls back his leg. He laughs quietly to himself when Camus keeps humping air for a couple of seconds before registering what happened to his source of friction. At Camus’s frustrated huff, Masato kisses his nose as a more-or-less sincere apology. 

“Camus, roll onto your back, please.” He grumbles a bit under his breath, but he obeys Masato nonetheless. Like this, Camus is breathtakingly beautiful. Smooth, light strands of sleep-mussed hair frame his pillowed head. His blush has spread from his cheeks and nose to just shy of the collar of his shirt. Camus is lightly panting at this point, but Masato can see from his face that he is at ease. His half-lidded gaze and kiss-slick lips invite him. Masato sidles up against Camus and makes quick work of unbuttoning his shirt before settling a hand under it and just below his naval. He slides that hand down just to the point that his pinkie grazes feathery pubic hair while the other hand settles on the side of his neck. Camus lets out a low, barely-there whimper when Masato begins to caress the sensitive pudge of Camus’s stomach with his thumb. 

“Is this alright, Camus?” Masato meets Camus’s eyes, and Camus maintains that when he responds, if barely.

“Alright? Masato, this is so much better than alright. Just—get on with it!” 

Ah, Camus really is cute when he gets impatient. 

“Try to remember your manners, Camus.” Camus sighs in exasperation, but it sounds far too desperate for Masato to really believe that he is annoyed.

“Just touch me. Please.” Masato sees the Adam’s apple bob when Camus swallows. “Masato... please touch me!” 

Pleased with Camus, Masato pecks him on the lips before murmuring against them. “Very good. Since you asked so nicely, I will do as you like.” With that, Masato quickly spits into his hand before taking hold of Camus’s length. The long-awaited touch has Camus sighing in relief, and his hips lift to thrust into Masato’s hand without thought. Masato moves the hand on Camus’s neck to his chest, pushing back the silk to reveal his pert, pale pink nipples. He ends up semi-straddling Camus in order to tease with his fingers and mouth at the same time. The rhythm of Masato’s hand on Camus’s cock turns slow and uneven as he adjusts, but the unpredictability which Masato would consider a product of his own inexperience ends up being all the better for Camus. When Masato presses the flat of his tongue to a nipple and twists the other between his fingers, Camus can do nothing but throw his head back and moan. It takes all of Camus’s willpower to hold himself back. Camus is already so close just like this, with Masato finding his pace again and firmly twisting his hand on the upstroke, with the bulk of Masato’s weight pressing against him, with Masato taking Camus’s nipple fully in his mouth, with Masato…

A particularly hard suck on his nipple causes Camus to arch his back off the mattress, and he briefly feels Masato fully hard against his waist through his briefs. He feels more than hears Masato’s groan that is muffled by the nipple in his mouth. Camus expects Masato to seek out more friction, but he actually pulls his hips  _ back  _ despite obviously enjoying the contact.

“Masato…” The man in question is still relentless with touching Camus, which makes it very difficult to get the words out. “Masato, wait.” He stops what he’s doing as soon as he hears. When he looks up at Camus, Camus notices that he looks a bit sheepish.

“I apologise. You were not supposed to notice.”

Camus narrows his eyes, a bit peeved. “What sort of lover am I, if you feel compelled to apologise for that?”

“That’s not at all relevant. You are a wonderful lover. This...this was just supposed to be about you, right now.”

Camus clicks his tongue in annoyance. “You’re a brilliant man, but right now, you are being incredibly stupid. If this is about me, it’s going to be about you, too.”

Unsurprisingly, Masato is taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that the whole affair would be far more fulfilling if you derive the same pleasure that I do.”

“Oh.” Masato shakes his head while laughing a bit, then he kisses Camus while still grinning. “Then...In that case, I apologise for fretting about something that was never a problem.”

“I will forgive you on the condition that you don’t hold back as you have your way with me.” 

“I would, but then you wouldn’t be able to open up shop.”

Camus deadpans. “What a shame. Then we will save fucking me until I can’t walk for another day.” The vulgarity that used to scandalise Masato now makes him laugh. 

“I still have something in mind, if you would move onto your stomach.”

“Yes, sir.” Though a bit mocking, that still manages to make Masato’s cock twitch and leak just enough precum to dot his briefs. Camus certainly knows what Masato likes.

When Camus finishes turning over, he strains to look at Masato behind him. Relief is clear on his face when he finally releases his cock from his briefs. Camus presses his hips into the mattress just from the anticipation, sighing. Camus keeps watching Masato as he adjusts, and then he feels Masato’s cock pressing between his thighs. He wasn’t sure what to expect from Masato, but  _ this _ is exciting. Camus presses his thighs together and is immediately rewarded with a gasp and a firm press forward which makes Masato’s hips settle flush against Camus. He loves the way Masato is draped over his back, his weight causing Camus’s cock to press harder against the bed. Masato maintains a firm grip on Camus’s wrists and keeps them pinned down.

Masato’s hot breath puffs against the space between Camus’s shoulderblades. “May I move now, Camus?” 

He rests his head on a pillow, facing the side. “Please do.” Even before Camus finishes, Masato starts moving while kissing his back. Camus is effectively trapped between Masato and the bed, so any friction he gets is the result of Masato’s movements. Masato must have been holding himself back for a long time, for within seconds the steady rhythm he was maintaining falls by the wayside in favour of sloppily chasing his pleasure. He isn’t even properly kissing Camus’s back anymore, just wetly mouthing as he pants harder. Masato forgetting to be considerate is Camus’s favourite; he doesn’t need to do anything but let Masato use him. It makes him understand Masato’s philosophy about poetry, that its restrictions bring freedom. Camus is free from expectation and scrutiny as he is right now, pinned to the bed by his lover. Perhaps it’s not exactly the same, but that is too much to think about for a man this close to orgasm.

Just a few messy thrusts later, and Masato spills between Camus’s thighs with a final grunt, to Camus’s surprise. The surprise is fleeting, overridden by need. The hot, sticky mess between Camus’s thighs makes the harsh jolts of Masato’s hips louder and far more lewd as he rides himself out, and it’s enough to push Camus over the edge with a cry of Masato’s name. His own cum slickens his movements against the sheets in the best way until he’s sated.

Masato releases Camus’s wrists and lifts himself before settling at Camus’s side. Camus shifts so that he faces Masato, and he leans into the tender touch of Masato’s hand as he brushes some stray locks of hair behind Camus’s ears.

“Masato. That was… I quite liked it, what we did.”

“I’m so happy to hear that. I know that I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Thank you for humouring me. This was lovely.”

Camus shakes his head as best he can while he’s sideways. “Masato, you should know me well enough by now to know that I am never one to humour anyone.”

Masato’s little laugh makes Camus’s heart do...he doesn’t know what his heart is doing, but it’s concerning. “I know, I know. But I can still be thankful.” He takes a cursory glance at Camus’s thighs. “Goodness, I made a mess of you. We should probably clean up.”

“We probably should, but…” Camus scoots closer and presses his face against Masato’s chest. “There’s time to spare, so let us stay like this for at least a little while.”

Masato sighs, resigned. He could never say no to Camus. “Alright. But only for a little while, alright?”

No response.

“No, Camus! You are  _ not _ going back to sleep!”

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
